As In Life, So In Death
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: Sherlock returns after the fall, and John has something to break to him.


Sherlock hesitated at the door of the flat; it wasn't 221B, but John naturally would have moved. Behind the wood, he could hear John busying himself in the kitchen, making tea as the evening news played gently in the background. Finally, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

John nearly scalded himself with the billing water, but managed to catch the kettle before the water sloshed out. "Sherlock." The word was breathed on an exhale, a sound of shock and almost sorrow. Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, invading John's space but feeling no warmth from the soldier as he had before. He inhaled, trying to recognize John's scent, but he couldn't distinguish it. Perhaps it had simply been too long, and he would need to relearn these nuances. All that mattered was that he was here, with John, and John was finally safe.

"I- I think we'd best sit down," John stammered, walking in a daze to the sofa and sitting down. Sherlock sat next to him, refusing to make himself comfortable until he was certain John was all right.

"What are you doing here?" John asked bluntly. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but it was technically a valid question, so he would answer it as honestly as he could.

"I missed you," Sherlock shrugged. "And it was safe for me to return now that things are taken care of."

"What _things_, Sherlock?" John asked. He seemed to be leading up to something, but for once Sherlock couldn't quite deduce what it was. Something bad- perhaps John wanted him to leave? No he was leaning towards Sherlock, wanting to touch him but afraid to. Afraid of what? They'd shared plenty of casual touches prior to the Fall- John might still be angry. Yes, that must be it. He was leading up to a lecture.

Ah, the question. Sherlock had been silent for too long, but John was still waiting patiently, as he ever did. "You were… under a threat, John. That's why I jumped. Now, they have been terminated." He didn't bother to sugarcoat what he'd done; John would accept it with the same easy calmness Sherlock had used when John had killed the cabbie. They'd killed for each other, and that was just part of who they were.

"Sherlock… I don't really know how to say this…" John fidgeted uncomfortably, that horribly sad expression forming across his face. Sherlock cut him off.

"Naturally you'll be angry, and I deserve that a bit, but John, you must see I only meant the best for you," Sherlock insisted. "John…" Here was further than he'd intended to go, but clearly it needed to be said if John was still angry, still hurting. "I couldn't live in a world without you. Far better for me to die and you to live than you to die so I could pretend to go on."

Now John looked even more sorrowful. He began to speak, his voice low and gentle as he tore Sherlock's world apart. "Sherlock… what do you think happened that day at Bart's?" At this, the detective scoffed.

"Simple. It was a parlor trick, really. Before jumping, I administered a drug that slowed my breathing and cooled my skin. Through use of a small rubber ball I cut off the pulse in my arm. I distracted you with the biker, landed upon a preexisting cushioning that was taken away before you could see. By the time you reached me, I was for all observable capacities dead."

John took a deep breath. "I know about the ball and the drug, Sherlock. Do you recall how much you took?"

Sherlock was bewildered. He focused, bringing up the moment with absolute clarity. "Of course. I took- I took-" But the moment wasn't clear. In fact, his only clear memory was of falling. Not of the cushioning beneath him, but of the pavement coming up quickly to meet him. He couldn't recall how much of the drug he'd inserted before jumping. He just remembered the prick of the needle and then- falling.

"You took twice as much as you should have. Sherlock, you didn't even look at the syringe did you? No, you were too confident, so sure that you were invincible, that not even Death would dare touch the Great Sherlock Holmes."

The detective was concerned; he'd heard this tone in John's voice only once before, when John was speaking to him at his graveside, thinking Sherlock dead and moldering beneath the earth.

"John, you know I'm not actually de-"

"Then whose body did I identify, Sherlock. Tell me that. Whose body did Molly autopsy, did Lestrade collect personal affects from. If you really aren't dead, tell me why that stupid coat is hanging in the closet _where I put it the day you died_," John said. His voice became more and more intense as he spoke, but he never raised it beyond a whisper. "And tell me why, when I went to touch your lap just now, it went right through you."

Sherlock looked down. John's hand- it was resting on the couch. Beneath where Sherlock's leg sat. He could see his trousers, the solid black material, but he could also see John's skin, warm and golden, shining up through it. He leapt up, and ran to the closet, tearing the door open.

He fell to his knees.

Hanging in the closet, front and center, was the selfsame Belstaff coat that even now ornamented Sherlock's shoulders.

John came and stood behind him, reaching out before remembering, and pulling his hand back a moment later. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Sherlock reared up, trying to ignore how John's hand passed through him as he did so. "Don't you dare throw my words back at me, John. I _cannot be dead._ I remember, every moment when I was away. I killed people John, and I remember it!"

"Did you really? Did you kill Moran?" John shouted back, taking Sherlock once again by surprise. John shouldn't know the name of the man sent to kill him; Sherlock had eliminated him immediately after the fall. "Because if you did, than this certainly isn't real!" John ripped back his collar, revealing scar, perhaps a year old, spread across his collarbone. "And it _certainly_ isn't leftover from the only case I ever took without you, the one I took _for_ you. And I most assuredly did not have to dismantle Moriarty's web myself, simply because you _couldn't be assed to read the damn syringe_!"

The detective hit his knees. John took nelt down, looking Sherlock square in the eye. "Listen to me, Sherlock. Whatever you think you need to do here, you don't. You are… you need to go wherever it is you go, after. You can't stay here." Sherlock only shook his head.

He didn't want to go, not when he finally had John back, and could have John the way he wanted to. Not when there was so much left unsaid between them and so much left in the world unknown.

And so much after that terrified him.

"I- I don't want to go, John. Please, please don't make me go. I don't want to be alone, not again," Sherlock begged. Under normal circumstances his tone would have ashamed him, but this was hardly a normal circumstance. John smiled gently at him.

"Sherlock, you'll never be alone. Not really. I'm just- I'm asking you to go save me a seat, all right?" John said. "You won't be alone, but I need you to go on before me."

Sherlock took a shaking breath. "But, John-" He could feel his body fading away, and when he broke off and looked down, he was becoming more and more transparent. "I'm not ready!" he shouted.

"Sherlock, look at me. I love you. Now go. Go wait for me, I'll see you soon," John said, smiling even though his eyes were clearly filling with tears.

"Don't forget about me," Sherlock gasped desperately, trying to hold on even as his world was overcome with a blinding white light. The last thing he heard was John's quiet chuckle, and one sentence.

"You won't be alone for long, Sherlock."

* * *

A moment or an eternity later Sherlock opened his eyes, to a completely darkened room. Before he had time to even look for a light, something warm and glowing settled in beside him.

"Ready?" John asked, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's.

Sherlock turned. "Ready."

They stepped, hands locked, into the dark.

* * *

They found John's body the next day, when Sarah dropped by to ask why he hadn't been at the clinic that day. He'd been seated quietly on the sofa, a familiar Belstaff coat spread beside him.

It was Molly who gave them cause of death, though they all suspected it.

Overdose.

John had followed his detective.


End file.
